Poet scan your blanket of
verses looking for
the missing songs we
buried in the wrinkles of
floral flannel.

Where are the sounds of
midnight?  the verses
of the wind through our
tangled hair?

Poet curve your arm around
me as the last breath breathes
kisses to the night.
Tomorrow's poem is unborn.

Let us fold the dawn into a
syllable, the night into
a song.


Caroline Shank